


and i will love (you've run your race; now walk with me)

by keycchan



Category: Leverage
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Romantic Hitter Husbands Weekend GetawayTM, eliot gets a heart attack for his birthday, it's ok though bc it's quinn, like it's ALL FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26644705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: The trees are dense, road barely visible and spaces between the trunks narrow, but Eliot keeps going. The only way out is through, Quinn said. He keeps the windows rolled down, his eyes and ears peeled for any sign of enemies, of a possible trap. He doesn’t hear anything but the forest for now, the crunch of dead leaves signalling the start of fall, animals doing whatever in the distance, but he’s on guard anyway. For all he knows he could be driving right into a goddamn field of landmines — he just knows that Quinn needs him and needs him now and fuck, if that’ll be what kills Eliot, then so be it. He’s already signed up for that the first time he tasted Quinn in his mouth and knew he wanted to stay. Never a better time than now, right?Goddamn it, Quinn.—Or: Quinn finally calls in that favour and gives Eliot a heart attack (but it's okay, because there's beer and fishing.)
Relationships: Mr. Quinn/Eliot Spencer (Leverage)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	and i will love (you've run your race; now walk with me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DivineProjectZero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/gifts).



Eliot’s shoulders are  _ killing _ him by the time he walks through his front door. They twinge when he instinctively tenses them — taking a second to look around and make sure nothing is off, no intruders, no traps and tripwires — and twinge again when he relaxes.

He’s definitely feeling his age, these days. Used to be able to take on ten guys at once without breaking a sweat and barely a bruise to show for it, could literally walk off a gunshot. Now, his body starts bitching and whining whenever he sits still too long or runs too fast. Ten years ago he’d managed to take down a domestic terrorist group while being handcuffed to  _ Hardison _ for chrissake, and now his shoulders are screaming just because he’s spent the last three weeks lugging around Hardison’s shit while they chased three separate assholes who were apparently linked tighter together than they appeared.

Not even from fighting, his body’s aching just from the damn chase. From carrying Hardison’s equipment up and down some flights of stairs and, at one point, Hardison himself. His body’s really starting to rust.

(It’s in itself a blessing and a curse, he knows. All those punches and gunshots and cars he’d shrugged off when he was younger may be coming back to haunt him with spite, but it says a lot that he’s survived this long to feel them at all.)

It’s good to be home though. He’s tired as hell, and not just from the aches and bruises. The job wasn’t too physically demanding but it sure as hell was mentally exhausting, the three of them caught too off-guard by the whirlwind of events and trails too hot to leave alone for even a second and having to juggle it all while being short handed. They had to take risks they wouldn’t normally take, risks that would probably have made even Nate think twice, and even though there was no immediate physical risk, the men they’d gone after had deep contacts.  _ Familiar _ contacts. Contacts with people Eliot knows would not hesitate to send hounds on the blood of his team, and while those contacts are distant and not involved with the con, it’s enough to have Eliot on edge even now.

So that’s one thing. Doesn’t help that he had all those days without a wink of sleep, running back and forth and juggling disguises and keeping tabs on ten separate people and making sure the details of the plan don’t collide. Sure, the last few day’s been mostly just cleanup, which Parker’s got most of it covered — as the years go by it’s becoming more and more obvious why Nate chose her to take the helm — but still. Eliot’s the protector, always has been. Old habits die hard.

Even now as he locks his door he still feels hyperaware, tension buzzing under his skin and coiling his muscles tight, body still in fight-or-flight in the sanctuary of his own home. Still analyzing everything, wary of walls that could hide eyes or ears, even though it’s clear as day that no one else is in here except Eliot himself. He counts every pair of shoes, looks at every dark corner. As far as he can tell, he’s on his own.

It’s both a comfort and not, because the thing is — Eliot doesn’t live alone.

Hasn’t for at least three years now, actually. Longer still, if you count the years they spent dancing around each other and then finally getting their shit together. There’s supposed to be more here; a pair of custom Italian loafers by the door, a black umbrella in the stand, extra keys in the bowl. There’s supposed to be stupidly expensive coffee in stupidly cheap novelty tourist mugs that say shit like Oklahoma’s Okayest Person sitting on the counter.

There’s supposed to be another hitter in here, with blonde hair and a smug smile and as beautiful as he is a pain in the ass.

He should be more worried about that.  _ Would _ be more worried about that, actually, if it weren’t for the single post-it note tacked to the coffee table.  _ On an errand, _ it says in sharp, neat writing,  _ Headed 3-7, be back in 3, not much, don’t worry. See you later Sawyer - HF. _

Quinn’s out on a job then. Not a big one by the sound of things, had left on Wednesday, and it’s Friday, now — still plenty of time before Quinn’s supposed to come back. He’ll only go looking if Quinn’s still not back by tomorrow evening. 

Eliot sighs in relief. It settles some of the unease in the chest, a bit of weight off his shoulders — he’ll never  _ not _ be worried about Quinn when he’s out on his jobs, of course, but they’ve done this for long enough to know what to expect, what to do. The possibility that one or both of them might go out and never come back is just a part of the job description. Part and parcel of whatever relationship they’ve found themselves in, and they’ve accepted that. Eliot accepts that.

And Eliot trusts Quinn. That, more than anything, counts for a lot.

He pockets the note, folds it into a neat square to tuck into his jeans, and heads to the couch. He’s a little hungry, but he’s a lot fuckin’ tired, so he’s aiming for a power nap before he goes to the kitchen to see whether Quinn’s been eating like a regular human being in Eliot’s absence.  _ If _ he can sleep. The couch is plush and comfy as hell, an investment from two years ago that’s more than paid for itself, but Eliot’s still tense. Can still feel the remnant adrenaline, the sharp wariness in his gut. That feeling that something could go wrong if he looks away for even a moment, hyper aware of every sound. Already he’s trying to remember exactly where every hidden weapon is stashed in this place, and the fastest way towards the nearest exits. God, he fucking hopes the other two listened to him when he said  _ stay low for the next few weeks, you hear? _

_ Christ. _ His shoulders cramp just from thinking too hard about them. He tries to settle in anyway, tries to force himself to  _ relax _ because he knows things should be fine now. The three guys are locked up behind bars by people who want them there with a grudge. Hardison’s doing the digital cleanup (which he said would be  _ a breeze, man, don’t worry ‘bout it! _ ) and Parker’s handling the cash (which she said  _ I know we’re supposed to give to the client but look how CRISP these are _ —  _ Okay, fine! I’m putting it down _ —) and it’s all good. They’d  _ told _ him to relax. He can do his usual checks  _ after _ he takes a nap. Everything’s fine.

So of course, right as Eliot shuts his eyes is the moment his phone chooses to ring.

* * *

  
  


— _ Straight through the fifth, right at the broken gate, into the trees and don’t stop. The only way out is through. You’ll know when you arrive. _

“Damn it, Quinn,” Eliot growls under his breath, “What happened to  _ small errand _ , huh—”

The truck jolts on a pothole, the third one by Eliot’s count. It jostles his go bag, resting on the floor of the passenger seat, and sends a small spike of tension pain up his back because he had to drive for half an hour, sit in a tiny rickety six-seater plane that shuddered with any slight breeze, and then drive for another two hours into what seems to be  _ the middle of goddamn nowhere.  _ Eliot’s trying his best to keep his head and draw a mental map of where he’s going because he sure as shit has no idea, he’s just following the cryptic instructions given to him, but even as his face pulls into an angry grimace at the fourth pothole, he knows he’s more freaked out about this than he wants to admit.

Because Quinn was the one on the phone.

Because Quinn’s finally called in the favour.

Nine years since that job at the dam, since Kiev, since Eliot called upon the only man to get him on the floor that quickly and saw the proper hitter that man refined himself into. Eight years since they started having Quinn in close proximity for an extra hand when jobs needed it. Six years since he and Quinn started looking at each other differently, started noticing the thing growing between them, and five since they shared a six pack and did something about it. Four years since Quinn started coming around more and more, three since Quinn showed up at Eliot’s with all his things and never left, like a stray cat that’s let himself in and made himself at home.

All that time. All those years. Everything they’ve done together, everything in between; gunfights and pasta dinners, interrupting international illegal arms dealing and picking furniture, defusing bombs and domestic arguments that stung for days and the make up sex that followed more tender and raw than the cock in Eliot’s ass — through all of it, every single one, Quinn’s never once called in that favour. Joked about it, yes, but never took Eliot up on it. He never needed to. There’s nothing Eliot wouldn’t do for him. Quinn knew that. (Or at least, Eliot thought he knew. Maybe not, after all.)

When the truck jostles a fifth time on another pothole, Eliot feels the shift of the gun strapped to his shin. He still hates using them, has gone eight years now without death on his hands. 

For Quinn, he’s willing to make an exception. Because if Quinn’s calling in the favour now, after everything they’ve been through, he may have to.

The broken wooden gate would be easy to overlook if Eliot wasn’t actively looking for it. It’s barely hanging on it’s hinges, old caution tape dirty and flimsy on it’s frame, the dirt road it’s supposed to bar intruders from barely looking like a road at all with all the dead leaves and detritus. It looks like no one’s been through that gate in years. Eliot doesn’t care either way; he spins the wheel, steps on the gas, and breaks right through it.

The trees are dense, road barely visible and spaces between the trunks narrow, but Eliot keeps going.  _ The only way out is through, _ Quinn said. He keeps the windows rolled down, his eyes and ears peeled for any sign of enemies, of a possible trap. He doesn’t hear anything but the forest for now, the crunch of dead leaves signalling the start of fall, animals doing whatever in the distance, but he’s on guard anyway. For all he knows he could be driving right into a goddamn field of landmines — he just knows that Quinn needs him and needs him  _ now _ and fuck, if that’ll be what kills Eliot, then so be it. He’s already signed up for that the first time he tasted Quinn in his mouth and knew he wanted to stay. Never a better time than now, right?

_ Goddamn it, Quinn. _

The space between the trees gets narrower and narrower. The path gets smaller and smaller. Eliot’s pulse is a thrum in his ears, white-hot as his knuckles against the steering, mind a mile a minute as he tracks how far he’s gone, things to use as landmarks if he needs to get himself and Quinn out again, takes note of what he has in his go-bag he could use because God knows he didn’t bring anything else.  _ Take what you need and nothing more, _ Quinn’d said, voice calculatedly hushed and calm,  _ Don’t worry. You just have to do whatever I say, okay? You have to trust me. _

_ Of course I trust you, jackass. _ Eliot said then, is thinking now.  _ Of course. _ He’s willing to do a lot for people who’s earned his trust. Willing to hurt, willing to  _ kill. _ He doesn’t know how he could do anything less for the people who’s shown him a glimmer of redemption, of understanding, of kindness and love and family despite the blood on his hands, caked under his nails and impossible to scrub out. He doesn’t know how he could possibly hold back, not for Quinn, who knows what it’s like to live this life, who knows the inhumane and unholy sins Eliot’s committed and still kisses his palms like they’re sacrament, who’s seen Eliot’s heart laid bare like his scarred skin on bedsheets and opened up his own, let Eliot press a knife to it and trusted him not to  _ push,  _ let Eliot kiss him like they could find salvation like this, Quinn, Quinn,  _ Quinn _ —

The trees abruptly part into a clearing, and what Eliot sees has him slamming the brakes so fucking hard he nearly throws himself through the windshield. His heart’s still pounding like it’s trying to break out of his chest when a familiar face comes up to his open windows, grinning sheepish.

“Hey there, El—”

And then Eliot punches Quinn in the chest.

* * *

“— You didn’t have to punch me, you know.” Quinn grunts, rubbing his collarbone under his loose red flannel with one hand and clutching a  _ bouquet of fucking roses _ in the other.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to  _ scare the shit out of me,  _ did’ja think of that?!” Eliot snaps back. “Chrissake, Quinn, I thought you were about to die!”

In his defense, Quinn  _ does _ look apologetic about the whole thing, particularly after Eliot gave him a thorough chewing out after checking out everything for traps, Quinn for bugs, the bouquet for bombs, everything he could think of and anything in between  _ but to be fair to himself _ — Quinn’s just scared Eliot within an inch of his fucking life, and Eliot thinks he’s got the right to be pissed to all hell right now.

_ Christ,  _ Eliot thinks, leaning against the hood of the truck Quinn had prepared for him at the airport in advance, trying to control his breathing. Runs his hands through his hair and wonders if the grey at his temples has spread to his entire head now from the stress of the situation. If he weren’t so fucking relieved that Quinn is alright and just being an entire goddamn idiot, he’d probably punch Quinn again, just for the satisfaction of it. This trip has shaved off more of his lifespan than all the gunshots, explosions and hit-and-runs he’s encountered in the last year combined.

“... Hey. Darlin’, I really am sorry.” Quinn’s voice comes from beside him, slow and low like he’s approaching a wounded panther. He puts a palm against the hood of the car before leaning on it, a deliberate show of telegraphing every move. If Eliot weren’t so busy trying to calm the blood rushing through his ears, he’d maybe find that charming. Or condescending. Whichever. “We always joke about that favour, and when I heard from Parker and Hardison that you’ve been all coiled up lately after this last con, glued to the job, and since you’re all laying low and that day is coming up I thought—”

“—That  _ now _ would be the best time to pull that on me?! You knew I’ve been on edge and you thought it’d be  _ fuckin’ hilarious _ to—”

Quinn holds his hands up, mock-surrendering, bouquet still in one hand and a grimace on his face. “Yeah, yeah, not my brightest idea, I see that now. Really — I fucked up, and I’m sorry, but I swear everything’s fine and I won’t do it again. I’ll make it up to you, if you’d let me?”

He means it, Eliot knows. Can see it in his eyes — brown as oak and twice as stunning, pulled at the edges with genuine guilt. He’s out of his usual pressed suits and dress shirts, clad in a half unbuttoned flannel and jeans, curly blonde hair now grown out into a wavy gold sheen that reaches past his shoulders. The way he looks now — his silhouette soft and vulnerable and framed by forest trees just starting to turn auburn — takes away the hitter, and leaves behind a man, beautifully sincere and sincerely beautiful.

Eliot watches him for a few moments (which, to his credit, Quinn doesn’t push or rush him in), breathes, and then sighs. Reaches out a hand to fist Quinn’s shirt and pull him closer, and doesn’t even try to pretend the relieved smile that stretches across Quinn’s face doesn’t loosen up the knot in his chest into a smooth river. (As if it was any surprise anyway. He could never stay mad at his stupid bastard for too long.)

“I’m sorry,” Quinn says again, resting his free hand on Eliot’s hip and nosing at his hair, “I’ll be less of an idiot next time.”

“You keep sayin’ that and you keep bein’ wrong, but fine.” Eliot grunts, pressing his face into Quinn’s neck and just. Breathes. It calms the remaining nerves in his body. Soothes the anxiety and the tension back into the marrows of his bones. (Of course it does. He’s finally home.) Then he opens his eyes and pulls away — not far enough that Quinn isn’t still touching him — and takes the bouquet, snorting. “Really? Roses?”

“Figured they’d be just cheesy enough to be charming,” Quinn says by way of explanation, and Eliot hates that he’s kind of right. “Promise there’s more Spencer-appropriate things to come.”

“Yeah, about that. The hell kind of surprise was worth knockin’ ten years off my life for?” Eliot asks, looking up to the cabin he’d almost driven the truck into. It looks nice, especially this time of year, but it doesn’t look like anything special.

“First off, I’m still sorry about that, and second, I promise it’ll be worth your while.” Quinn says, grinning. “Best birthday weekend you’ve ever had or money back guaranteed.”

Eliot blinks. “... Birthday?” Shit. He hadn’t even realized, what with everything going on. Huh.

“Yes, Einstein, specifically yours. And you’re not allowed to leave or complain until you give it a chance, and you  _ have _ to listen to what I ask you to do. The favour’s still on — I was serious about that part.”

Eliot snorts, and lightly pushes at Quinn’s side, waving the roses. “I already accepted your damn bouquet, sweetheart. Just get on with it.”

Quinn laughs (and fuck, if Eliot hasn’t missed it in the last three weeks, if love had sounds one of its calls would come from the air of Quinn’s lungs) and then leans down, pecks Eliot on the corner of his mouth. Eliot decides to do it one better and grabs Quinn’s collar before he can pull away, and pulls him closer instead to kiss him more fully on the mouth — closed but warm, but soft, but tender and amazing and Eliot lets himself melt into it, feels Quinn sigh contentedly against his lips when he pulls away, and feels the last of his anger dissolve.

Five years later and Quinn still smiles like Eliot’s put the sun in the sky. Eliot can’t help his own smile back, free hand letting go of Quinn’s shirt to grab his hand instead. “Lead the way.”

Quinn's smile crooks into a cocky smirk. “Alright, El. Let me introduce you to  _ Chateau Quinn.” _

* * *

_ Chateau Quinn,  _ as it turns out, is a lot more spacious than it looks on the outside, and a hell of a lot nicer to boot. 

The dense circle of trees outside and around the cabin makes a perfect disguise for the rest of the place, hiding what’s actually a beautiful wooden cabin that looks so good Eliot finds himself staring for maybe a little too long. It’s a single floor but wide, just spacious enough to have room to breathe but cozy enough to be intimate. Plenty of windows to let sunlight through, plenty of surrounding trees for privacy. It’s also clearly lived in; there’s hints of history and life in the place, in the scuff marks on the floor and coffee rings on the table, sun-bleached curtains and hand-carved bookshelf. It makes the place feel settled into, feel like a  _ home, _ instead of the artificially crafted coziness of an interior design magazine cabin. Less manufactured rustic hospitality.

“When did you even  _ get _ this place?” Eliot says, trying not to sound as awestruck as he feels. The porch area ‘round back is lovely, has a little swing seat and everything, but he’s too absorbed by the massive crystalline  _ lake _ the cabin’s apparently connected to, stairs from the back porch leading down to water so clear and smooth he can see the fish swimming around at the bottom. With the nearby mountains and the dense ring of trees surrounding the place in the colours of a perfect sunset, it feels impossibly perfect — like they’re in the centre of a personal gemstone, a pocket of paradise just for them.

Eliot’s so entranced by it all he almost doesn’t hear Quinn’s reply, which he sort of wishes he did, because Quinn’s smug expression and voice is just this side of insufferable. “About a month ago. Place used to belong to some old couple before they decided to move in somewhere closer to the city to be with their grandkids instead, so I bought it out before they let in any other bidders. Spent the last few weeks moving shit out and in, picking furniture, cleaning the place up. Don’t gotta worry none about a change of clothes or anything — shoved a bunch of your stuff in a bag and brought it here with me. It’s in the bedroom closet.”

So that’s why Quinn told him not to bring anything except the essentials. Which brings Eliot to another question, one that’s been pressing uncomfortably in his mind the entire time he’s been shown around. “How long did you say we were gonna stay here?”

“‘Bout a week, give or take. I mean, if you wanna head back early, we could, but you have to stay at least for the weekend.” Quinn shrugs, and then narrows his eyes and whatever expression Eliot makes after. “Whatever dumb thing you’re about to say, don’t.”

Eliot winces, but turns to Quinn anyway, and tries not to get distracted by how the trees compliment his hair, red like fire and flaming golds. “I know you said you’re callin’ in the favour, Quinn, but I can’t stay out here that long. The team might need me.”

“Uh huh. Now, tell me if I’m wrong, but the job’s done. Bad guys in prison where other not-so-nice guys are willing to keep ‘em, everything cleaned up.” Quinn says, soft but firm, moving to touch Eliot’s hand and then hold it. There are callouses there, years in the making and more to come. It makes Eliot relax — he didn’t even realize he’d been tensing up again. “From what I know, Parker and Hardison are off on their own cooldown time right now. Stayin’ low and taking a break while they’re at it. If they can have downtime, why can’t you?”

“Because I gotta look out for ‘em, Quinn,” Eliot stresses, “The people linked to the ones we just put behind those bars? They’re not good people, Quinn. Bloody. I gotta keep an ear out for ‘em, I can’t just cover my eyes and hope they’ll still be there when I come back—”

Eliot pauses.

“Wait. How’d you know about Parker and Hardison?” Eliot asks, brows furrowed.

“Wild guess,” Quinn drawls sarcastically, before his eyes meld back into sincere, and his thumb starts drawing little circles on the back of Eliot’s hand. “Sweetheart.  _ Eliot. _ The two of ‘em told me. You think I arranged this unprepared?”

“No, I think you’re a smartass.” Eliot replies, barely missing a beat. “What the hell were they doin’ telling  _ you _ about a gig?”

“I’m a  _ prepared _ smartass,” Quinn quips back, “And they didn’t tell me the details of the job. I was already going to bring you here at some point after I bought the place — just expedited the process a couple days ago when Parker was telling me, and I quote,  _ I think Eliot’s about to pop like, every blood vessel, and while I wanna see that happen I don’t want it to be happening to  _ Eliot, _ y’know, so, could you maybe unclench him or something, _ end quote.”

… Okay, yeah, that sounds like Parker. (Also, the fact that Quinn’s getting good at imitating her speech patterns is incredibly concerning.) Still though. 

“Still. You know how it is, Quinn. I just don’t wanna risk shit, I don’t want something wrong happening and them bein’ in trouble while I’m up here cozying up with you, what if they need me—”

“—Then they’ll call you. No regular reception here but you brought your satellite phone, right? The one you keep one in your go bag? If you didn’t, which I doubt, I have mine and a backup. Hardison’s got the contact for both.” Quinn replies, plain as oats. “Also gave our coordinates to him — which, by the way, he’s using to wipe our footprints of even getting here so we’re pretty damn secure — and if you’re  _ still _ unsure and you really wanna get out of here, I’ve got a friend on call who can charter us an entire goddamn helicopter, and— Eliot.  _ Eliot.  _ Darlin’, sweetheart,  _ look at me.” _

And Eliot does. Of course he does — how couldn’t he, with Quinn sounding like that,  _ looking _ like that?

“I took care of everything.  _ Am _ taking care of everything. You just gotta trust me, at least for the weekend.” Quinn says, voice low and tender. “And if you really can’t take it, you really don’t wanna be here or you really gotta check in on the other two — you can, I swear, I won’t stop you if you really wanna leave. But at least give it a chance. You still owe me the favour, after all, and far as I know, Eliot Spencer doesn't go back on his word. C’mon. Please?”

Eliot knows he’s done for. For all he bickers and banters with Quinn, for all Quinn had almost given him two heart attacks and a stroke today  _ alone, _ he knows he never stands a chance when Quinn’s this sincere; Quinn could ask him to jump, and Eliot would only ask  _ how high. _

But Eliot’s arguments deflate completely at the  _ please, _ at the look in his eyes, at the way Quinn’s palm fits in his and squeezes.

Goddamn it.

“Fine,” Eliot breathes, shutting his eyes to Quinn’s relieved breath of laughter, “ _ Fine, _ I’ll give it a chance — don’t look at me like that, I already said I’d stay.”

“Tsk, the sheer ingratitude for the man who’s arranged a romantic weekend getaway for you.” Quinn chides, smiling. “Lucky for you, I’m also magnanimous.”

“You keep telling yourself that if it makes you happy,” Eliot snorts in response, even as his own mouth cracks into a grin at Quinn’s laugh, the corner of Quinn’s eyes crinkling in a way that puts a satisfying feeling in Eliot’s gut. Eliot is, after all, not the only one getting older here, and while Eliot’s closer to 50 than Quinn is, Quinn’s starting to show his own signs of age. Eliot’s grateful for that, more than he could ever express. 

This line of work, you’re lucky to live long enough to see lines on your face. The fact Eliot’s alive too to see Quinn’s, to help place those laughter lines in the corners of Quinn’s eyes — God.

He’s truly lucky to be alive.

“You got anything on the agenda for today, then?” Eliot asks, raising their joined hands to press his mouth against Quinn’s knuckles.

“Nothing ‘til dinnertime,” Quinn murmurs, “Why? You got anything in mind?”

“You said something about a bedroom, right?”

* * *

Contrary to what Eliot of five years ago would’ve done, they don’t actually get up to anything particularly exciting in the (admittedly nice) bedroom. The adrenaline and anxiety keeps him up and running up until the exact second he hits the mattress, and then he’s tumbling down without restraint, groaning at how  _ good _ it feels, because of course Quinn would know the exact kind of mattress Eliot likes. He tolerates the smug grin on Quinn’s face for all of two seconds before wiping it off by pulling his fella down onto the bed with him, running his hands down Quinn’s side, touching everything he’s missed for weeks, nosing the underside of Quinn’s jaw and breathing in Quinn’s laugh, long blond hair tickling at his cheek. (Eliot’s never been in this cabin before, but it’s good to be home.)

They stay like that awhile. Just touching. Just re-memorizing everything they’ve already committed to memory, kissing lazily under the afternoon sun, dust motes floating in gentle sunbeams that highlight the day-old shadow on Quinn’s face, lighting a golden halo in his hair that he’s spent the last three years growing out and maintaining (which Eliot really likes, by the by, even if he’s content to keep his own hair the length it is.) Quinn’s hands are a welcome comfort, especially when they hit the tightened knots of Eliot’s shoulders and Quinn decides to change that fact. 

Eliot falls asleep like that — on his front under the firm strength of Quinn’s hands, massaging the tension away until Eliot’s eyes close, in a haze of perfect strength and lavender oil.

When he wakes up again, he wakes up alone, but to the aroma of something familiar that makes his stomach growl. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, and when he stands to walk out of the bedroom, he’s pleasantly surprised to find his limbs and muscles looser, more relaxed.

“‘S that the pasta recipe I taught you?” Eliot asks, once he gets to the kitchen.

Quinn looks up from where he’s standing over a high-sided skillet, face cracking into a smile over where he’s melting down butter. (Eliot takes a moment to admire how Quinn looks like this — sleeves rolled to elbow, half apron cinched ‘round his waist, long blond hair tied up in a loose bun that makes Eliot want to untie by running his hands through it.) Quinn must’ve heard him coming, but Eliot likes the thought that Quinn heard him and then let his guard down enough to not look up anyway.

“Sure is,” Quinn answers breezily, “Got the freshest salmon I could, too.”

Eliot smiles. “Of course you did. You need any help with that? I could dice the—”

Quinn shoots him a pointed look. “Eliot, honey, it’s your birthday weekend. You can micromanage the way I cook all you want, but you touch anything this side of the counter and I’ll personally shishkebab your hand.”

“I’d like to see you  _ try,” _ Eliot snorts, but takes the hint anyway, sitting at the counter barstool instead of taking his usual place in front of the stove.

It  _ is _ nice, kinda, to not be the one cooking for once. And to Quinn’s credit, he doesn’t sass back or get annoyed when Eliot  _ does _ give him a few helpful directions while cooking. Quinn just nods, and listens, and does what he’s asked and in no time at all the whole cabin’s carrying the aroma of cream and wine and garlic and salmon baking in the oven. Eliot’s missed this. Not just the home cooked food, or the image of Quinn in an apron, but just —  _ this. _ All of this. Them, peaceful and contented, just like this.

(Domesticity is a good look on Quinn, Eliot thinks fondly. A distant part of him wishes they could have this forever, just peace and quiet and a life together. The rest of him knows, realistically, it’s just not possible with the path they’ve chosen, at least not the peace and quiet forever part.

It’s a nice thought, all the same.)

“Alright, it’s almost done,” Quinn announces after awhile of stirring, “You mind getting the drinks from the fridge and waiting outside by the back deck? The sky’s supposed to be clear tonight.”

“Why, Quinn, you plannin’ on wining and dining me?” Eliot grins, even as he hops off the barstool to do what he’s told.

Quinn snort-laughs. “If you want wine, sure — But I was thinking something more your speed.”

Eliot’s speed, it turns out, is beer.  _ Beers, _ as in plural, as in Eliot opens the fridge and there’s at least five different kinds of his favourite beers. And not just his favourite _ brands _ either. He sees specialized local porter that can only be found in the Baltic right next to his favourite good ol’ American branded bottles, he sees a classic pilsner next to an altbier — hell, he spots a dozen bottles of red-brown that he remembers distinctively drinking only  _ once _ in a tiny homestay on a job in Bruges and then never being able to find it again because it was a homebrew and the homestay had shut down the last time he visited. Just  _ looking _ at it makes Eliot’s mouth water.

“... I ever tell you that I love you lately?” Eliot says, breathlessly.

“Mm,  _ misschien,” _ Quinn hums, “You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

Eliot laughs, all pleased and surprised delight because fuck if he has no idea what he’s done to deserve someone like Quinn, but he’s in too deep now to even think about stopping. He can’t even put words to it. He just walks over and gently turns Quinn’s head to meet his mouth, kissing him slow and deep and appreciative even at the risk of burning the sauce. Quinn only kisses him back, blue eyes fluttering shut, the curve of his smile against Eliot’s own. It’s better than any wine Eliot’s ever tasted, and only gets better with age.

“Thank you,” Eliot breathes after a moment, pressing his head to Quinn’s temple, “For all of this.”

“Oh, darlin’, we’re just getting started,” Quinn laughs, “And for the record?”

“Hmm?”

Quinn kisses him again. Once on the mouth, deep and sweet, and then little pecks on the corners of Eliot’s lips, his cheeks, and finally his nose, Eliot laughing in half-embarrassed pleasure.

“I love you too.” Another kiss. “Now get the beers already.”

Eliot smirks. “Cream ale?”

“Cream ale.”

* * *

After the night they had, Eliot fully expected a long, lazy morning in. Eliot may be used to going on less sleep and prefers being awake in general, but Quinn’s always been a fan of sleeping in whenever he’s allowed to, stretched out under the morning sun like a cat. Eliot likes to tease him about it sometimes, but he never means it. Seeing Quinn’s chest rise and fall with every breath, counting the soft shadows in the valleys of his spine, hearing the sharp inhale he makes right as he’s waking up before stretching,  _ unfurling, _ like something magnificent and powerful and very sleepy — Eliot could watch that every single day for the rest of his life and never get tired of it. He’d give up watching football for this. That’s  _ saying _ something.

Last night in particular was pretty damn indulgent, like this whole weekend getaway seems to be panning out to be. They’d gone to bed with stomachs pleasantly full, made out long and slow and grinded lazily on each other before falling asleep. Eliot fully expected to wake up first, watch Quinn sleep a little bit, and then make some breakfast for himself while waiting for Quinn to return to the land of the living. That’s how it usually goes on their off days anyway.

So being out on a canoe in the middle of the lake at seven in the morning with fishing rods is — you know. Just a little bit out of left field.

Eliot can’t help but laugh when he hears Quinn yawn wide enough to crack his jaw; the third time in as many minutes. “You sure you don’t wanna head back inside, man?”

“I’m fine,” Quinn insists, stubborn as ever, “You and I both know I’ve been up earlier than this, and on less sleep. I’m good.”

“We also know there’s a difference between on-time and off-time.” Eliot argues back easily, plain as pie, because  _ he’s _ stubborn too. And sure, maybe he’s a bit hypocritical considering how a part of him is still anxiously wary from the last job, still a little too alert, but hey.

He punches people out for a living. Being a bit of a hypocrite is not the worst thing he’s done on his list.

Eliot has to admit though, it’s a beautiful morning to be fishing. Hell, it’s a beautiful  _ place _ to be fishing. His eyes had been as wide as dinner plates when he’d first stepped out the back door earlier on, absolutely transfixed by the crystal clear water in the morning light, trees catching the sunrise through orange leaves and encasing their lake in amber. Now that they’re in the middle of the lake and settled in, it’s pretty much the textbook definition of idyllic. Tranquil. It’s fucking amazing.

Eliot’s always been a fan of fishing — a memory of good times in the past, moments of precious peace, and pretty much a surefire way to unlock a certain bone-deep contentedness within him, which is probably why Quinn’d planned it in the first place.

But then Quinn yawns again, then gnashes his jaw shut in frustration over it, and Eliot laughs.

“Maybe I could convince you,” Eliot half singsongs, plays innocent, “With the bed ‘n all. Maybe with my mouth.”

“Ohhh no _ , _ no you don’t, don’t you dare try and bribe me!” Quinn laughs, elbowing Eliot’s back, “I spent too long making sure my fishing game is up to par to stop now, and besides, we’re catching breakfast.”

Eliot cocks a brow. “Oh? And what if we don’t catch anything? What if it started raining?”

Quinn shrugs. “There’s frozen fish fingers in the freezer.”

Eliot must’ve pulled a face, because Quinn takes one look at him and then laughs hard enough to shake the boat a little. Eliot only rolls his eyes, partially exasperated but mostly fond. “In that case, settle in. We’re not movin’ until we catch a few trout.”

They do catch a few trout. In fact, they catch more than a few, that they then release most of after because they ain’t greedy, and Eliot’s always learnt to not take too much from the wild. (You can steal from people, fine, but whatever you steal from mother nature, she’ll take back later with interest.) And sure, the last twenty minutes of “fishing” were mostly just him and Quinn shooting the breeze and laughing about inane bullshit, but it’s some of the best twenty minutes Eliot’s had in the last month. He could stand to do it more. (He could stand to do it forever.)

In the end, Eliot ends up being the one cooking the trout, because for all he trusts Quinn with his life, he doesn’t trust Quinn to properly prepare some good, fresh fish. It works out fine since Quinn’s more than happy to leave Eliot to gut the fish in their sink while he ties up the canoe. When it’s done (pan-seared, pinch of salt, bit of butter, lemon wedges, mashed potatoes on the side with a side salad) they eat out on the back deck, with pale ales Quinn flew in from France. They watch the sun ripple it’s reflection over the water, and eat and drink and talk and laugh to their heart’s content.

When Eliot kisses Quinn after, he tastes faintly like fruity beer and fish. It makes him laugh. (It’s a very, very good morning.)

* * *

The rest of the day, in brief:

They reach a unanimous decision to take a nap after breakfast, where Quinn inevitably falls asleep before Eliot does and Eliot follows after by counting the freckles on Quinn’s shoulders, spread like constellations and twice as pretty. When he wakes up, it’s to the afternoon sun lighting Quinn’s long curls as gold as fire, arm slung across Eliot’s middle, lashes pale as bird feather and a mile long. Eliot privately thinks it’s another perfectly good birthday gift in itself; he gets to kiss Quinn awake, watch those lashes flutter and that hair tumble down over strong shoulders as Quinn rises half-asleep to his elbows to meet Eliot halfway.

They hit the lake again afterwards, but not in the canoe this time. The water’s clear as glass in the midday sun, sparkles like champagne, and looks near holy with the way it drips down Quinn’s chest, emerging from the lake like some sort of river god made flesh. Eliot savours the sight for all of thirty seconds, until Quinn crawls up to where Eliot’s standing by the water’s edge and pantses him like a goddamn child. Then Eliot spends the next thirty seconds bodily tackling Quinn back into the water. They scare all the fish away, and Eliot finds out what Quinn’s grinning mouth tastes like in freshwater.

Dinner starts later than usual, because making the decision to step into a hot shower together always makes them later to whatever the hell they’re supposed to do after, and they never bother to learn their lesson. It’s worth being a little hungry, to see Quinn’s mouth kissed red and swollen and panting against Eliot’s throat, the fat head of his cock against Eliot’s and squeezed together in Eliot’s fist. Food can come later. Quinn comes first — figuratively, and literally.

It’s well after dark by the time they make it to the kitchen, and in a controversial decision by the court (the court being Quinn), Eliot succeeds in negotiating a deal to take up the space beside Quinn at the counter instead of sitting across from it. 

(The negotiation mostly just went like this: 

_ “I ain’t here to just stand still and look pretty, let me help you.”  _

_ “Stubborn as an ox, aren’t you?”  _

_ “Sure. Also, you’re using the wrong knife.”  _

_ “... Fine.” _ )

There’s something to be said about that, Eliot thinks. He likes doing other things together well enough — he and Quinn fight great together, and they fuck even better. Some of his best memories in his worst times these last few years have been with Quinn, cramped together in the dark and on the run, smeared in red and kissing each other like it’ll make up for the blood loss. No matter how much he likes to think he’s one of the good guys now,  _ genuinely, _ he went into his career path for a reason; there’s always going to be that thrill of a good fight, the pump and thrum of adrenaline and the rush of blood to the head and heart that he tasted once and could never tear himself away from, and it’s even  _ better _ when Quinn’s there at his side.

But there’s something about this, too. In the quiet mornings, in the lazy nights, in shooting the breeze and talking about anything and nothing and everything in between. In the slow pulses of the day, in between one thought and the next breath. In the act of just standing side by side in the kitchen, Quinn with his sleeves rolled up with glaze and salt up his forearms, Eliot searing the steak in a haze of garlic butter, both of them laughing over the time Quinn lollipopped a guy in Peru using a butter knife and a napkin.

There’s something to this too, something Eliot can’t exactly put to words, but something he appreciates more than he could ever even begin to say. A rare type of comfort and trust, being able to do this. Both of them living a life of blood and violence, yet standing here quiet and contented in a cabin kitchen, Quinn with a knife in his hand and Eliot humming because he knows Quinn would never turn it on him willingly.

It’s good. It’s better than good. Eliot wants Quinn by his side through all of it — the thrill and adrenaline of combat, and the mundane happiness of just being alive and alone together in the same space. All of it, and everything in between.

Eliot recalls an incident in Glasgow where he’d fended off a pissed off gaggle of geese using only a rake and a cheese grater, and Quinn laughs by his side, close enough that their arms brush as Quinn says  _ alright, alright, pass the pepper. _

This, Eliot thinks, is what love is.

* * *

Eliot’s comfortably nestled against Quinn, resting off his steak-induced food coma and enjoying Quinn’s fingers running through his hair when Quinn abruptly pats his side and shifts.

“Alright,” Quinn says, “Let me up a sec.”

“Why,” Eliot growls, and wraps his arms tighter. “‘M comfy.”

Quinn snorts, and it could almost be mistaken for annoyance if it weren’t for the fingers still raking through Eliot’s hair. “If anyone told me years ago that Eliot Spencer was a cuddler I would’ve decked them in the throat. C’mon now — unless you don’t want your presents?”

Right. Presents. Birthday. It’s technically tomorrow, but Eliot knows it’s become their tradition to do birthday gifts a day early — some sort of odd superstition Quinn has that they should receive their gifts and enjoy them before their actual date of birth comes to pass and the universe realizes they should probably be dead by now and goes to correct the mistake. Eliot’s never really minded either way, but then again, he never really bothered celebrating birthdays until the team and Quinn arrived into his life.

If anything, the only thing stopping Eliot right now is the fact he’s perfectly comfortable where he is right now, thank you very much, and he has half a mind to pin Quinn down and fall asleep on him like this. That’d be a nice birthday gift to himself. Real indulgent.

“Eliot,” Quinn laughs, “Let me  _ up, _ you clingy sonuvabitch.”

“Presents can wait, I’m good where I am,” Eliot retorts, resting his chin on Quinn’s sternum.

“... What if I also grab the Flemish red-brown from the fridge?”

Hmm.

“Alright, fine,” Eliot sighs, reluctantly rolling over to let Quinn get up from under him, “But if you take too long I’m taking full custody of this couch. You can sit on the floor and cry about it.”

Eliot can hear Quinn’s reply of  _ sure you will _ in a way that sounds a lot like  _ I love you, _ and the sound of footsteps disappearing to the little storage closet that’s attached to the hallway. Quinn’d let him check it out the first night, mostly to sate Eliot’s own wariness, but afterwards had strictly banned him from peeking because of the presents. As it stands, though, Eliot’s so sated on a good steak dinner that he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even flinch even if Quinn came out with a fucking cannon. He feels too good. 

Quinn, for better or worse, doesn’t come out with a cannon. What he does come back out with is a small stack of giftwrapped boxes that make Eliot’s brows raise. There’s a total of three from what he can see in Quinn’s arms, and two small slips of paper in his h—

“—Holy shit,” Eliot practically jumps up from the couch, “Are those front row tickets to next week’s game?”

Quinn grins. “That’d be from Hardison, yeah. Hold on — take these, I’ll grab the beers.”

Eliot is more than happy to accept the gifts from Quinn, carefully placing the gifts on the space next to him on the couch. They’re relatively flat and longer than they are tall, so he’s pretty curious — but as is, he’s pretty fucking pleased already to have tickets to the game. He’d been thinking about it for awhile, but was on the fence, especially with the last job taking so long and being so draining. Hell, he was sure the seats were sold out — but it’s Hardison. Man may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but Eliot would be the first to admit that he’s also a genius, and generous to boot.

“Two tickets, huh?” Eliot muses as Quinn comes back, two bottles of chilled beers in tow. He accepts one as Quinn goes to sit on the floor by his feet, because his own spot’s been taken up by the gifts.

He doesn’t seem particularly mad about it though, content to rest his head on Eliot’s knee. “Sure. You and a plus one, I’d think.”

Quinn gives a pointed look at Eliot. Eliot barks out a laugh.

“You wanna catch the game with me next week, sweetheart? I just scored a pair of tickets, and I’ve got it on good authority that the seats will be pretty decent.” Eliot smiles, waving the tickets in his hand giving a cheesy wink that Quinn only laughs to.

“Well, darlin’, when you put it like that,” Quinn grins, and clinks his bottle against Eliot’s.

Eliot takes a swig as Quinn does, and maybe the noise he makes when he breathes out after  _ could _ constitute as a moan, but listen. It’s  _ good. _ Eliot hasn’t had a Flemish red quite like this one ever since he had his first taste, and now it’s here again by some miracle and it’s  _ good.  _ It’s better than good. It smells like dark fruit and spices and chocolate, and it tastes fruity and malty with a hint of hops bitterness. It tastes good enough to  _ cry. _

He doesn’t get to though, because he gets an elbow to the shin and Quinn going, “You’ve got other presents to get to, cowboy. You can make out with your beer after.”

Eliot snorts amusedly, takes another happy swig just to see Quinn roll his eyes and huff out an exasperated, fond breath, and then places his bottle and the tickets on the coffee table to free his hands.

He starts off with the biggest box, because he’s frankly dying to know what the hell’s inside of it and also because he’s too old to care much about delayed gratification. It’s about half the size he is, wrapped to the nines, but surprisingly light. One look at the rose-gold wrapping paper (if it’s paper at all and not something stupidly expensive) and the elaborate silver ribbon wrapped around it lets him know who it’s from, and it makes him laugh. He hopes those two are having fun in their retirement, wherever they are.

He takes care to unwrap it — maybe not delicately, because he’s not really a delicate guy — but the Sophie that resides in his head would probably try to strangle him if he just tore into it, so he takes off the ribbon and paper as neatly as he can and lays it aside to reveal —

Quinn gives a whistle, long and impressed, and Eliot can’t help but agree.

It’s a guitar. Not just any guitar either, it’s a 1933 authentic OM-18 laying in a hardshell faux-alligator case; all solid mahogany body and neck, an ebony fretboard, glossy caramel burst down the heavily grained wood top downright striking against the green velveteen interior. It’s simple. It’s  _ gorgeous. _ It’s exactly the kind of guitar Eliot loves; clean bracing, impeccable woodwork, simple binding. No bells and whistles, no over the top flair. It’s just old-school craftsmanship done beautifully.

A single slip of card paper’s threaded between the strings on the neck, and Eliot plucks it out to see Nate’s familiar handwriting — thick letters, all caps, almost mechanical in how neat it is.

_ Happy Birthday, Kenneth Crane, _ is all it says, and Eliot has to laugh.

“He even  _ writes _ like a dad,” Quinn notes when he plucks the card from Eliot’s fingers.

“He is what he is,” Eliot replies nonchalantly, moving to pluck the strings experimentally. The sound sends shivers down his spine. Sweet highs and lows, loud and crisp and clear, every chord like an angel’s choir. It makes Eliot grin. “Oughta get this a proper stand and everything.”

“That can be arranged,” Quinn hums, resting his chin on Eliot’s knee. “We can pick one up on the way home.”

“Sounds good to me.” Eliot replies, leans down to press a kiss to the top of Quinn’s head before slipping the guitar back into its case and putting it aside. “Which one next?”

“It ain’t  _ my _ birthday,” Quinn laughs, but he clearly looks at the second largest package next to the guitar. Eliot snorts and picks it up.

It’s clear as day whose gift this is from, wrapped incredibly plain but incredibly neat, long and flat and covered in crisp-wrapped construction paper. It’s also heavier than the guitar despite being smaller, and that makes Eliot cock a brow. At least until he opens it.

Eliot blinks. “... Is this the fucking  _ Joyeuse sword?” _

It is, in fact, the fucking  _ Joyeuse _ sword. The entire Oakeshott Style XII of it — gold, lapis and all. The sword of Charlemagne, King of Franks, of medieval legend and supposedly on display in the Louvre.  _ That _ sword.

_ What the hell, Parker, _ Eliot thinks as he holds it up. “What the hell, Parker,” he decides to say out loud for good measure.

Quinn only shrugs. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Eliot sheathes the sword, puts it aside, and calmly chooses not to think too hard about it.

The last gift is, thankfully, a lot less to unpack — both figuratively and literally. It’s the smallest by far, the size of a small novella and wrapped neatly in paper that’s shiny and grey like metal. By the feel of it alone, Eliot can tell it’s a picture frame, and by the looks of it he can tell who gave it to him. He can’t help but smile down at the man who’s resting at his knee, looking for all the world like there’s no place he’d rather be, all brown eyes and blond hair curling at the ends and smirking up at Eliot like the cat that ate the canary. If someone’d told him all those years ago that he’d be able to find so much goddamn  _ love _ in that shit-eating grin, he’d probably punch them on principle.

He thumbs the wrapped gift idly, smirking right back as Quinn’s knee jiggles a little. A sign of his impatience. A tell he’s well aware of and keeps under wraps most of the time — the fact he’s willingly showing it to Eliot means worlds more than it seems, and it makes Eliot’s heart full.

Quinn finally breaks first, sighing in exasperated fondness, “Oh, come on, really?”

“Hey, ‘s my birthday gift. I can take my time if I want,” Eliot says nonchalantly, and snorts when Quinn flicks his shin. “Besides, you know you didn’t have to — did so much for me already this weekend, you ain’t gotta fuss.”

“Didn’t need to, but I wanted to,” Quinn says easily, “I told you before I was just getting started. Now open up the thing before I drink the rest of your red-brown without you. I promise, you’ll love it.”

So Eliot does, partially because he knows Quinn doesn’t make promises he can’t keep, and partially because he knows Quinn will  _ absolutely _ make good on that threat and he wants to savour it, damn it. So Eliot opens the gift. Tears the paper apart because he knows Quinn doesn’t care too much about the wrapping. Then he uncovers what’s underneath — and Eliot barks out a laugh so loud it startles even himself, Quinn grinning wide and pleased as punch at his knee.

“Happy early birthday,” is all Quinn manages to say before Eliot catches his shirt collar with one hand and hauls him up for a kiss, deep and true and hard to keep because of how much they’re still laughing.

(The gift in his other hand — the picture of Quinn, punching Chaos square in the face, framed in ornate carved rosewood — will go up on the mantelpiece, later.)

* * *

“Fuckin’—  _ fuck, _ Quinn, it’s  _ my _ birthday, stop with the fuckin’ torture already!”

Quinn, the smarmy-ass bastard, only keeps grinning. Only keeps leaning over Eliot, one hand gripping the headboard where Eliot’s own two hands are clenched around, the other hand finger-fucking himself so loud that Eliot’s half certain it’s scaring away nearby woodland animals.

_ Fuckin’ cocktease, _ Eliot thinks, sheer willpower stopping himself from thrusting up into empty air. Quinn can probably tell, because he only slips in a fourth finger and keeps near-fisting himself, lube dripping over onto where Eliot’s cock is hard as rock and curved against his hip.

“Quinn!”

Quinn laughs, breathlessly and half-moaning as he draws the fingers out from himself. “Patience, boy. It ain’t your birthday  _ yet, _ technically.”

“Oh, now  _ you’re _ tellin’ me the meaning of patience!” Eliot snarls, “I’ll show  _ you _ t—  _ hhhhnngg!!” _

Eliot doesn’t get to finish his sentence, which is fine, since he can’t think anymore what with Quinn drawing back on his haunches to reach behind him and flick  _ that _ on.  _ That _ being the C-shaped prostate massager that Quinn stuffed inside him ten minutes ago. Eliot’d been doing such a good job of ignoring it, too (or as much as anyone could ignore a firm, unforgiving, unfairly amazing bulb right against the prostate), a truly cavalier attempt, but now Quinn’s gone to reach back to where the toy curves ‘round to hug Eliot’s perineum, nestled just behind his balls, and now it’s  _ vibrating,  _ Eliot’s seeing  _ stars _ —

And then Quinn grabs Eliot’s dick, slicks it up with quick strokes of lube, and sinks down on it in one go.

Eliot  _ howls. _

“There we go,” Quinn says, self-satisfaction in his voice only a little ruined from how hard he’s breathing. Legs, shaking, from where they frame either side of Eliot. The window’s right above their bed, and in the moonlight he can see how Quinn’s abs tremble in self control.

It’s heat all around. It’s  _ Quinn _ all around, pulsing hot around Eliot’s cock, Quinn’s lube and pre and spit around Eliot’s hole where Quinn’d spent the last half hour enthusiastically eating out like he didn’t just have an entire steak dinner and two beers. Eliot’s knuckles are gripped white around the headboard, kept there through sheer force of will and on Quinn’s request alone, and right now he’s starting to see why Quinn wanted it there — the solid pressure of wood eating into his palms is the only thing keeping Eliot from coming into Quinn right here, right now.

So he lets it ground him. He steadies his breathing as much as he can, even as the buzzing against his prostate sings sweet songs straight into his veins, even as Quinn clenches around him rhythmically, trying to get used to the thickness of the length inside him. The bed creaks when Quinn slowly lifts himself off of Eliot, and Eliot can’t keep his eyes off of it all — the light of the moon throwing the shaking muscles of Quinn’s thighs in sharp contrast, and glistening on the slick lube-and-pre covered cock of his that he watches Quinn uncover, inch by inch. It’s obscene. It’s glorious. 

And then Quinn let’s gravity smack his hips back down, chokes on a moan so drawn out and gorgeous that Eliot’s brain fizzes out, and there’s... no real room left for thinking.

Quinn sets up a punishing rhythm, which is simultaneously hot as hell and a clear testament to his leg strength. Thighs flexing as he rocks up and down, cock red and hot and bobbing with every bounce, leaking precome down the slit and off his balls. Each rock, each grind, makes the prostate massager inside Eliot nudge against his prostate, and it’s an assault on every side possible. It’s, frankly, fucking amazing. Eliot feels full, feels  _ wet, _ on all ends and in the best way, and each  _ slap-slap-slap _ of flesh against flesh, each rumbling groan Quinn lets erupt from his throat — it feels like a direct line of electricity to Eliot’s dick, heat building in his gut like a red-hot coil.

The coil tightens, tightens, the room all heat and sweat and sex and Eliot’s so close, so  _ close _ —

Then Quinn’s watch lights up and beeps off to the side, and Quinn just. Stops. Eliot nearly breaks his neck from how hard he slams his head back into the pillow, half-growling and half-sobbing.

_ “Quinn,” _ Eliot grits out, too desperate to care about how desperate he sounds, “Quinn, c’mon, what  _ now _ —”

“Happy birthday.”

Eliot stops. Pauses, screeching in his tracks, opens his eyes and looks up and feels all his frustration just, dissipate, like breath on a cold night even as his own still comes out hard and gulping. Because Quinn is looking at him. Really  _ looking _ at him, and Eliot can’t help but look back. Because the light of the moon is filtering through the window looking over their bed, illuminating Quinn in it’s glow, lighting him so Eliot can see all of it — the definition of muscles, the soft details of skin glowing with sweat; cock slick and beading with precome; calloused hands planted stable on Eliot’s own stomach; long hair drawn over one shoulder like a curtain, curled near the ends, golden as spun silk; and.  _ And.  _

His smile. Quinn’s  _ smile, _ reaching all the way to the warm brown of his eyes, soft and tender and  _ honest _ in a way that makes Eliot feel flayed open. Like Quinn could ask Eliot to tear open his own chest, reach inside the cavity and pull out his own heart, sinew by sinew, and Eliot would just say yes. Because he would. Because the way Quinn’s looking at him, right now, like he’s genuinely and wholly happy to be here, happy that  _ Eliot _ is here, happy that they’re sharing this same space and time and breath together — Quinn’s looking at him as if to say  _ I’m glad you’re alive,  _ and _ I’m glad I’m alive with you. _

Eliot can feel his heart in his throat, fit to bursting, overflowing with a fondness he didn’t even know there  _ could _ be more of.  _ Son of a bitch.  _

It can’t be more than a couple of seconds, this birthday revelation — but his mouth feels dry anyway as he cracks his lips open and asks, “Quinn?”

Quinn blinks down at him. Quirks his mouth into that same cocky smirk, even as his eyes don’t change from screaming  _ lovelovelove. _ “Can I help you with something, Spencer?”

_ Start moving already, _ a part of Eliot still wants to scream.  _ Please let me come already, _ he wants to beg. But, in a thought that’ll make him laugh later from how dumb and accurate it is — he may be balls deep in Quinn, but Quinn’s sunken himself down right under Eliot’s skin, seeping into Eliot’s capillaries and bones and nestling into his marrow like he’s belonged there always, like he did into Eliot’s life. And God help him, Eliot wants to keep him there.

The moonlight diffuses around Quinn to join the soft glow of sex and contentedness, worn like a well-loved sweater. Eliot lets go of the headboard.

“Can I touch you?” Eliot asks, voice more fragile than he’d thought it’d be.

Quinn looks startled by it, the smirk faltering slightly before perking back up into something, somehow,  _ more _ affectionate. “I mean, it’s officially your birthday now, cowboy. You can have whatever you want.”

“You,” Eliot breathes, even as Quinn’s own breath hitches at the word. Startled, but not unhappy. Looking at Eliot with a certain wonder that Eliot’s all too familiar with, right now. His hands come to hover over Quinn’s thighs — close enough to feel the warmth, but not touching. “Quinn. I just — I want you. Please. Can I touch you?”

It’s phrased as a question, because it is. Because it’s not, and never will be, a demand. But Quinn —  _ God, _ Quinn — he only looks at Eliot like he’s personally given him a piece of his ribs and the whole of his heart. Takes Eliot’s hands, and places them on his hips.

“Yes,” Quinn breathes, all barely-hidden joy and amusement and  _ love, _ “Anything you want. All of it.”

_ All of me for all of you, _ is the last thing Eliot thinks before he pulls himself up, cock still buried deep in Quinn’s heat, and captures Quinn’s mouth with his own.

He’d gone just a little soft in that little exchange, as did Quinn. That changes pretty quick, though. Sitting up moves the still quietly buzzing massager, nudging it harder into his prostate. Makes him groan against Quinn’s mouth, cock thickening back up inside of Quinn, and that makes Quinn moan low and deep in a positive feedback loop of pleasure. He runs his hands up to Quinn’s shoulder and rakes his nails down, leaving hot, red lines in their wake — Quinn responds in kind by biting his lip and then sucking at it, and at his tongue. Eliot doesn’t think he’s been harder in his  _ life. _

Eliot takes his time to touch Quinn — the broad of his shoulders that taper to the waist, the small of his spine, and all the expanse of skin and scars and sinew in between — but it’s hard when Quinn keeps distracting him, keeps grinding his hips low and filthy and making Eliot moan. Quinn sitting in his lap and also being taller than him makes it easy to muffle those moans into Quinn’s throat, with the help of tongue and teeth, but still. It’s a little unfair how Quinn can turn him into this — can make him come so undone.

Turnabout is fair play, Eliot decides, and cautiously rocks his hips. Quinn shudders, visceral pleasure in the low groan in his throat; it’s a sound Eliot wants to bottle and keep on a shelf for rainy days, the most expensive liquor. He slips his hands lower, tugs Quinn down the same moment he rocks up, a little harder, and this time Quinn moans low and sweet right into  _ Eliot’s ear, _ tongue slick and wet against the shell and the movement nudges the massager deeper into Eliot’s prostate and,  _ fuck. _ Shit. He’s hard as a rock. He’s pretty sure his dick could shatter concrete right now.

He isn’t going to last like this. He  _ isn’t. _

“C’mon, boy,” Quinn whispers, hot in his ear and biting at his jaw, “Open me up.”

_ Well, if you insist, _ is the last thing Eliot manages to think before Quinn  _ clenches _ around him and his last brain cell jumps ship. Eliot  _ growls, _ and shifts; one hand goes sliding down Quinn’s back, ‘round the mounds of his ass and down to where his hole is stretched slick around Eliot’s cock — the other Eliot puts behind himself, a stable anchor to the mattress. Quinn shakes into a half-choked moan when Eliot strokes the wet rim, stretched pretty around Eliot’s girth, lifts himself slightly; Eliot takes this opportunity to spread his legs just a little wider, plant his heels into the bed, and then  _ drives up _ into Quinn — hard.

It’s everything Eliot could hope for and more. Quinn keens like it’s been punched out of him, keens like he’s dying, animal and almost pained except for how his hips start moving with Eliot, start lifting and slamming down as Eliot pistons himself into Quinn’s tight, wet heat. (They fuck like they fight; in perfect synchronity, and the thought is so fucking hot it’s a miracle his brain doesn’t just white out.) There are nails down Eliot’s back now, Quinn spitting curses that sound more like prayer against Eliot’s skin, canines sinking into the meat of Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot hardly notices. He’s too busy brutally slamming into Quinn, skin on skin like thunderclaps as Eliot slides home again, and again, and again and again and again,  _ feeling _ himself slide in and out of Quinn’s visceral heat and grip with both his dick and his fingers.

“Fuh—  _ fuck,  _ nngh,  _ yes, _ Eliot,” Quinn pants into crook of his neck, half-drooling. Eliot responds by pounding up even harder, thighs burning but not nearly as hot as Quinn is around his cock, squeezing like a vice. “Fuck! Shit, c’mon, darlin’, I —  _ hnaaah _ fuck —”

Every noise, every sound, makes Eliot’s blood sing, bypasses his brain and goes straight to his dick. His belly burning hot from how fucking turned on he is, especially with Quinn squeezing around him like this, Quinn’s cock hard and wet and smearing precum all over Eliot’s stomach with every bounce. His brain is nothing but white noise. Surrounded from all ends with nothing but  _ Quinn, _ on his skin and mind and heart and cock and tongue. Sharing harsh gulps of air, panting against slick mouths, like they could share oxygen like this, like they could breathe underwater like this.

Quinn grinds down hard at one point, makes Eliot moan like he’s never even  _ done _ before meeting this beautiful bastard of a man, because it’s forcing Eliot to grind onto the massager, white stars exploding behind his eyelids. They’re so fucking  _ wet, _ a mess of lube and spit and precum. And then — and then Eliot feels fingers, sliding up his neck and into his hair. Feels them comb through, across his scalp.

Then Quinn digs his fingers in and  _ tugs, _ hard, baring Eliot’s throat for him to latch his mouth onto and Eliot’s moans like he’s going to fucking  _ die. _

He didn’t think he could go any faster, but the way Quinn’s going at his throat and jaw and tugging at his hair that, apparently, has a direct line of connection to Eliot’s cock, makes Eliot move his hand from Quinn’s ass to around his waist,  _ forcing _ Quinn up and closer and to  _ stay still _ so he can fucking. Jackknife into Quinn, hard and fast like he could fuse them together if he thrusts hard enough, like he could mark Quinn from the inside out like this. The force of it punches moans out of Quinn with every thrust, Eliot nailing Quinn’s prostate with his cock while the massager nails his own, and he’s gripping Quinn had enough to bruise and Quinn’s gripping at his hair and mouthing at his jaw, his ear, a tongue in Eliot’s mouth hot and slick and beautiful —

Eliot comes hard enough to hurt, the noise that breaks from his throat primal and raw, holding Quinn close and burying his face in Quinn’s shoulder while he empties himself inside Quinn. And then — because of course he would, of  _ course _ he would — Quinn, beautiful bastard, comes untouched; doesn’t moan quite as loud but it spills out of his throat like he’s overflowing with it, tender and fragile and shuddering with how good it feels, clenching around Eliot and hips jerking in short thrusts, shooting his cum hard enough that a little hits Eliot’s shoulder, his chest, hot and thick and creamy.

The afterglow envelops them like a blanket, no sounds except for the deep gulps of air they’re both taking in, pulses still racing, muscles slowly unwinding. Quinn’s head lowers, Eliot meets him halfway, and then they’re just — leaning like that, Quinn sitting warm on Eliot’s lap, foreheads together, cooling sweat sticking skin to skin. Quinn’s fingers loosen their grip to just comb through Eliot’s hair instead. Loosely holding, painfully adoring. Eliot opens his eyes to Quinn’s gaze; brown eyes so soft and terribly tender that Eliot’s chest hurts with it, mouth crooked into a perfect smile, meant just for him.

“Hey there, Huckleberry,” Eliot says all low and quiet, sweet and fond. Unable to help the stupid smile that cracks across his own face.

It’s fine. He’ll take being an idiot, if he can keep watching the way saying it makes the corner of Quinn’s eyes crinkle in silent laughter. He’s long accepted that he’ll always be a soft fool for this dumbass who can play Eliot like a finely tuned fiddle, so long as it keeps making Quinn smile.

“Hey yourself, cowboy,” Quinn chuckles back, and then kisses him soft. So soft, so slow, so perfect. Melts into Eliot’s arms, and Eliot’s heart melts out between his ribs to pool in Quinn’s palms.

Eliot multitasks a little, here. He straightens up a little, so the hand that’s been anchoring him to the bed and reach behind him to pull the still vibrating massager out — it pops out with an obscene wet sound, the loss of pressure making Eliot groan again, and then he turns it off and throws it aside. Then he moves his other arm from where it’s been iron-clad around Quinn’s waist. Moves it up instead, so he can thread his own fingers through Quinn’s long hair, tucking the sweat-dampened strands on his face behind his ear, cups the strong line of his jaw and kisses it. 

His fingers catch on something halfway, and Eliot laughs. “You got lube in your hair, HuckFinn.”

Quinn blinks, and then rolls his eyes. If it weren’t for the moonlight shining so bright, Eliot’d almost miss the way Quinn’s cheeks turn a little red. “And you got my cum in yours. What’s your point?”

Eliot doesn’t answer that. Instead, he smirks, and moves his hand slowly to his shoulder, his stomach. Runs his fingers down where Quinn’s cum has him marked — and he loves how Quinn’s eyes automatically follow them, half-lidded and hungry — and gathers what he can. Then he licks it off his hand, long and slow, gathers it with sweeps on the flat of his tongue. Swallows it down. And because Quinn’s not the only smartass bastard in this relationship, and turnabout’s fair play — he reaches down to Quinn’s cock, softening but still half-hard, gives it a last stroke and squeezes the head between his forefinger and thumb to draw the last beads of cum out and swallow that too.

Eliot doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything more beautiful to him than the sound of Quinn’s breathy laughter, half-interrupted by a moan at the sight and feel of it. Never seen anything more beautiful than this, with Quinn on his lap and red on his cheeks, damp with sweat and cum, shaking his head in amusement and staring at him all fond, like Eliot’s personally hung him the sun and moon. (Eliot doesn’t even want to imagine what  _ he _ looks like right now. If he had to guess though, he’d go for ‘radiantly besotted fool’, because Quinn has the tendency to make his face look like that.)

Quinn kisses Eliot on the corner of his mouth, tongue peeking out to taste himself before he starts lifting himself up. “Alright, that’s enough, we —  _ ahh, _ we gotta save some juice for tomorrow.”

Eliot just goes  _ mmhmn, _ because it’s hard not to be distracted at the sight of his cock slipping out of Quinn, his cum leaking out and down Quinn’s thighs, stretching in thin strings that look like gossamer in the moonlight between Quinn’s hole and the glisten of Eliot’s dick. It’s hypnotizing. Fuck the Mona Lisa, fuck all the artifacts Eliot’s ever been hired to retrieve from the deepest crevices of the world — he embeds  _ this _ image into his mind instead, snaps the picture of Quinn rising off of him, bathed in moonlight and wearing the afterglow that turns his edges soft, hair near silver and beautiful as anything,  _ this _ image he burns into his memory.

Eventually though, he has to get up too, every muscle and sinew in his body feeling loose and well-fucked. Then he touches the bed again and grimaces.

“Guess we gotta change the sheets. I hope you brought extras.”

“‘Course I did. Do I look like a chump to you?” Quinn says over his shoulder, “And  _ you _ gotta change the sheets,  _ I _ have to hit the shower.”

“Me? It’s my birthday, why do I gotta clean up?” Eliot scowls.

“Because you’re not the one with cum leaking out his ass and onto the floor.” Quinn wiggles said ass for emphasis. Eliot forgets what he wants to say, momentarily. Quinn laughs. “Fine, you wanna be fair? Rock paper scissors. Loser makes the bed.”

Eliot narrows his eyes. “... Deal.”

(Honestly, he’s not even mad about it later, as he dumps the bundle of sheets into the wash and heads back to the bedroom to put on the new ones. He’d had a feeling he was probably gonna lose anyway. He’s got a tell around Quinn. But he can’t complain — his blood’s thrumming in the best way possible, skin tingling, sated and content and heart fit to bursting. The man he loves is just a few steps away, humming in the shower.

Maybe if he’s quick enough, he can join in.)

(He does.)

* * *

When Eliot wakes up, the sun hasn’t even risen yet. That fact isn’t surprising, since Eliot’s still used to sleeping late and waking early even as he’s trained himself out of the 90-minutes-a-night sleep schedule over the years, but here’s what  _ is _ surprising:

Quinn’s the one that wakes him.

Eliot’s trained himself out of 90 minutes of sleep but he hasn’t trained himself out of not waking at every random movement, so when the mattress shifts and dips with the weight of someone moving, Eliot wakes up and notices. He’s pretty sure Quinn notices too, since Quinn’s exactly the same. As far as Eliot can tell though there’s nothing else weird going around, and his gut’s quiet and peaceful, so he just shifts a little, goes back to sleep. Ain’t like it’s irregular for either of them to get up in the middle of the night to piss or walk off the night terrors.

Thing that  _ is _ irregular is Quinn not coming  _ back _ to bed. Eliot dozes for a couple of minutes, but his body registers the surprising lack of change in the atmosphere, and that brings him back to wakefulness faster than he imagined it would. They’ve made a habit of making themselves predictable around each other, at least in the little things — living the kind of life they do, being hyper aware and always on your toes, it’s nice to be able to rely on some small form of routine where they can. Eliot’s used to Quinn waking up sometimes, going to piss or stretch and then come back a couple minutes later. Even when he gets called on an abrupt job, Quinn usually wakes Eliot to tell him, or comes back to grab his go bag.

This time though, Eliot only hears Quinn shift out of bed, stretch, and then leave the room. Minutes pass and he doesn’t come back. It makes Eliot turn a little, frowning — his gut’s still pretty quiet, it doesn’t  _ feel _ like anything’s wrong, but something’s a little off too. Then Eliot smells it — coffee, the scent of freshly ground bitterness of the sweetest sort wafting through the air. 

Alright then. That would explain why Quinn’s not back in bed yet. It doesn’t explain though why Quinn’s making the coffee in the first place, at — Eliot takes a second to check the clock on their bedside table —  _ six thirty _ in the morning when he doesn’t have to, so Eliot takes his own moment to get up, stretch, and then head outside to see what’s up (and maybe have some of that coffee.)

The kitchen’s lit up in a dim morning blue when he steps into it. Sky out the window’s just starting to begin its waking, the dark of the night giving into the light, hints of the coming lavenders and pinks and reds and golds of morning sky winking beneath the horizon. There’s a certain kind of peace Eliot finds in being up at these hours; a very distinctive sort of quiet, and the hushed sounds of the world muted further in sleep, and the comforting reliability of the sun always rising no matter what other complications are happening around him. Eliot likes it, has always liked it. He’s been liking it even more though, now that he has someone else to experience it with — the same person who’s leaning against the counter, braced on strong forearms, sipping on coffee still steaming. Eliot doesn’t try to soften his footsteps as he walks in; Quinn only looks up and over his shoulder and smiles, eyes twinkling in the dawn’s light.

“Hey,” Quinn greets him softly, in a half-whisper even though they’re the only ones around for miles, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Horseshit,” Eliot replies fondly, and cracks into a smile at Quinn’s huffed laughter.

“Yeah, okay, fair. I’d hoped you’d notice and join me.” Quinn admits, straightening up, tapping the space on the counter next to him. “Made it how you like it. Better drink up before I drink it for you.”

“What is with you and always threatening my drinks?” Eliot huffs, and walks forward anyway. Doesn’t head straight to the coffee, though; instead he detours to slide a hand to the small of Quinn’s back, fingers sliding against the soft cotton of Quinn’s t-shirt, and revels in the way Quinn automatically turns to face him, like a flower to the sun. Quinn’s own hand rises up to cup the nape of Eliot’s neck like it’s just second nature, shoulders a long line of ease.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” Quinn murmurs, the corners of his lips rising in the sweetest hello, and Eliot kisses him in reply. When they part, Quinn’s got a familiar dazed look of fondness on his face, one that Eliot’s sure is written well on his own. “Well then.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” Eliot says in reply, and then moves to settle at Quinn’s.

He notices the thick paper folder almost immediately as he goes for his mug. It’s hard to miss, sitting right there at the centre of the counter. Normally, he’d have warning bells going off in his head, but Quinn’s not trying to hide it and Eliot highly doubts he’d be having coffee right next to some kinda bomb or deathtrap, so he just. Takes his mug of coffee first. Takes a long sip (and fuck, it’s  _ good, _ of course it is) before he puts the mug back down and looks at the folder again, then back up at Quinn.

Quinn’s leg is bouncing, just a little. Eliot wonders what that means, and keeps quiet to find out.

Quinn breaks the silence first, as they both knew he would. “It’s for you.”

“Another present?” Eliot answers, looking back at the folder. It’s got no names on it, no cards. He can’t think of anyone else who’d be giving him birthday presents, ‘cept maybe Toby, but this isn’t his style of gifts. “From who?”

“Me,” Quinn answers simply.

Eliot looks up in surprise. “Another one? Quinn, sweetheart, I meant it when you said you didn’t have to fuss — this whole weekend’s already been more than I could ask for —”

“I’m allowed some fussin’, if it’s over you.” Quinn replies, and it makes Eliot pause. Makes him look,  _ really _ look at Quinn, all bouncing leg but steady eyes and something equally hopeful and vulnerable inside them.

Eliot looks at the folder. Slides it over to himself, and opens it up, and takes out —

“Documents?”

Not just any documents, he realizes as he empties out the folder and spreads it across the counter. It’s… everything. Sheets and sheets of identity papers, including a birth certificate, a detailed medical history. Credit score, bank accounts, job references and CVs, certificates and degrees, an entire stack of papers in the back about property ownership and vehicles. Someone’s entire history filed meticulously into black and white and tucked neat into an innocuous paper folder.

It’s tedious to look at, painfully boring, and  everything someone would need to start a new life.

Eliot looks up at Quinn, eyes wide, mouth parted in disbelief.  _ Like a slapped mackerel, _ Sophie would call it, but Eliot can’t even register that with how his brain is struggling to put pieces together. Quinn’s no help either — he’s just looking at Eliot, looking somewhere between trying to look calm and also antsy as hell, leg bouncing, the line of his shoulders just a little tense. His eyes just watching Eliot. Waiting. As if Eliot would even know what to say; he barely even knows what to  _ think, _ even though his pulse is racing, like his body’s caught up to the conclusion his mind hasn’t yet.

“It wasn’t all me,” Quinn says slowly, once he seems to realize that Eliot’s still struggling to process it all, “I had help. So I should actually say it’s a gift from all of us.”

“All of us?” Eliot echoes.

“Parker, Hardison. Nate and Sophie. Me.” Quinn lists off, and then, “The people who love you.”

Eliot can’t help but stare. At Quinn, and then at the documents fanned out before him, as his mind starts slowly digesting what Quinn’s put on the table, both metaphorically and literally. 

Quinn doesn’t rush him, and Eliot takes a moment to digest it a little more, before he swallows and looks back at Quinn. “You know I can’t just — I can’t just  _ leave, _ I can’t —”

“You can,” Quinn says, “If you want to. Listen. This isn’t just some — last minute thing I pulled out of my ass, you know? Been working on this for at least a year and change now. Been talking to all of your team, asked them their opinions — they know about this. This is from them too.”

Quinn moves, here; takes a half step closer, and takes one of Eliot’s hands. Brings it to his mouth and kisses the knuckles; Eliot can’t not notice the minute tremble of Quinn’s fingers, and in the next inhale of his breath.

“You — Listen. You’ve done a lot. Been through a lot. We know that.  _ Taking the punishment, _ like you always say, and you and I always talk about how every extra day we get to live is just a bonus, that we’ll be lucky to live long enough to see gray in our hair let alone retire —” Quinn pauses. Breathes. “... Well, I can see the gray in yours. And I’d like to keep seeing it, if it’s fine by you, so here’s the other end of the package.”

Quinn nods at the papers.

“This isn’t a part of the favour, I should say — you don’t have to take it, or even if you wanna, you don’t have to take it now. It’s completely up to you. But I promise, it’s solid if you want it. We all worked together, built you an identity and a life from the ground up, all of it above board. We haven’t done it  _ yet, _ but whenever you want, we’ll wipe all trace of you, make it seem like you disappeared or never existed.” Quinn explains, and then squeezes his hand. Makes him look Quinn in the eye. “We’ve pulled every string, checked under every hole, overturned every rock. We’ve dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s. We’ve laid the foundations for whenever you want,  _ if _ you want it. It’s all for you.”

The sincerity of Quinn’s stare makes Eliot feel like his lungs have stopped working. The enormity of it all stalling the gears of his brain. He looks again at the documents, really takes in the details of what’s spread out before him, and forces himself to breathe. Because this is what they’re offering him: an option he never thought he’d ever have, with all he’s done, and now that it’s laid out in front of him in clean letters and tiny font he can’t believe it:

It’s not just a retirement. They’re offering him a clean slate.

He used to think about it, back when he was younger. Back when the world still seemed fresh and new, when his eyes were bright and his hands were clean. He’d thought about it plenty; finding some pretty girl to settle down with, buy a house with a big ol’ yard, have some kids and a dog and a white picket fence. Work hard, retire well, live out the rest of his gentler years in peace, surrounded by friends and family.

Then he got his hands stained and he saw the dirtier crevices of the world. Saw just how evil men could be and, for a time, became one of them. Eliot knows the weight of the guilt that’s buried in his skin. Knows the trail of blood and bruises and bodies he’s left behind him, a localized hurricane of destruction and hurt. The kind of life he’s lived, he’s stopped dreaming of retirement long ago. He’s stopped allowing himself to want it.

But now. But  _ here. _ All these years later and his dream is right here, spread out in front of him in sheets of paper, daring him to take it.

“... What about Parker? Hardison?” Eliot says, and doesn’t even bother how his voice quakes a little.

Quinn’s face breaks into a grin at that, like he knows Eliot’s answer before he’s even given it, and God help him but it makes Eliot’s own shoulders ease a little, as that grin always does. “Oh, they’ve prepped for themselves too. What, you think you’re the only one who’s thought of retirement? Not anytime soon I don’t think, what with how Parker is, but they’ve got their own papers squared away since they made the ones for you.”

The relief that courses through Eliot is palpable. It’s one thing, having this laid out before him, but no matter how tempting the dream he couldn’t ever just abandon his team like that. He’d made his promises. He’s always gonna be the protector. But the fact he knows, now, that he’s not just ditching them, that maybe they too will settle down and do what they want until they’re ripe and old and happy... The thought even makes him smile a little — he’s got no doubts that Parker will never completely retire from stealing, but maybe now she can have the option of living her twilight years with Hardison and going around together thieving in peace. Woman probably  _ would _ find it a happy challenge to break into a vault while on a walker.

Then Eliot looks up. Meets brown eyes and a warm smile. And he asks, “What about you?”

The smile flickers for a moment, and Eliot’s heart drops just a little.

He knows, objectively, that he and Quinn have always operated on the mutual understanding that their relationship comes intrinsically entwined with their jobs. You can’t take it personally when your personal and professional life have more or less melded into each other. Sometimes there will be nights where they have to sleep alone in their beds because the other’s out somewhere, doing something dangerous, with the risk they may not come back the next morning (or ever.) Sometimes there will be cancelled dinners, or missed anniversaries, because of a last minute call. 

They operate in close proximity but they’re not on the same team; Quinn has his own life besides Eliot, his own goals and priorities, his own jobs that don’t involve Eliot at all. His own secrets and skeletons in the closet.

And Eliot understands. It’s part of why they work so well together, why their relationship even exists in the first place — Eliot  _ gets it, _ because he’s  _ lived it, _ is currently living it. Out of everyone Eliot’s ever even begun to love like this, Quinn’s the only one he’s truly let himself be…  _ himself _ around, because Quinn’s the only one who could even begin to understand it. He doesn’t have to hide the darkest, bloodiest parts of himself around Quinn if he doesn’t want to, because Quinn’s seen it himself. Quinn’s been around to help scrub the blood out from under Eliot’s nails, because Eliot’s been around to wash it out of Quinn’s clothes.

And it’s good. It’s better than good. This kind of understanding is hard to come by, and harder still to have it with love involved. It’s not everyday you meet someone who gets it when you order a new bed in for two but need to move it very specifically to a point of the room closest to as many exits. There’s a kind of selfish they can be around each other that they can’t be around anyone else. And it means something, means a  _ lot _ actually, that they do it — that they’re two separate people, with separate lives and work, who’re taking the risk to be together and making it work anyway. Falling in love is easy, Eliot knows. But staying in love, and getting to  _ keep _ that love, in a world like theirs — that’s rare. That’s  _ precious, _ and Eliot knows that.

But even though he knows it, and knows objectively that Quinn has his own commitments that Eliot’s not a part of — in reality, it still hurts; the idea that Quinn may not want to stay if Eliot gets out of the game for good. Oh, sure, Eliot gets it. He gets it just fine, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. You can never force people like them out of the game short of killing them, and Quinn’s six years younger than Eliot is. Who knows what other things he might want to do, might try to find? Eliot couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t even think of asking Quinn to stay, to give up this life they’ve been entrenched in for decades just to be with him.

God, though. He wants to. He really wants to, but it’s not his place, but he doesn’t want to lie, but he knows the next words out of his mouth if he opens it right now will be  _ come away with me, I need you, _ so. He just looks at Quinn and waits. Mouth trembling, but shut.

It feels like forever. It’s probably only a couple of beats later though, when Quinn squeezes the hand Eliot’s holding, brings it closer to press to his chest.

“... Not yet.” Quinn finally says.

It takes a moment. But then Eliot feels his face break into a grin, wide enough to hurt. “Oh, yeah?”

Quinn’s own face mirrors his own, cracks into a smile like he can’t help it. “Not yet, no.”

Quinn looks like he’s about to keep talking, which gets as far as  _ I _ before Eliot cuts it short by pulling Quinn into a kiss; one hand on Quinn’s heart and the other coming up to cup his face, his jaw, thumb rubbing at the stubble.

_ Not yet, _ Quinn said.  _ Not yet. _ Which means that not now, but maybe, probably, somewhere in the future there will be a  _ yes, _ and that’s all Eliot needs to hear to know Quinn is on board. The way Quinn’s smiling against his mouth, breaking away to laugh a little breathlessly before pulling Eliot even closer by the nape of his neck — that’s just confirmation, and this time Eliot’s the one who has to break the kiss because he’s grinning too hard, cheeks hurting, the hand on Quinn’s jaw moving to thread through Quinn’s hair, pulling him forward to bump their foreheads together. He knows how stupid he probably looks right now; radiantly besotted, a fool in love. He doesn’t have it in him to care.

Later, they’ll talk about it, between sips of good coffee and bites of scrambled eggs and bacon on toast, sitting out on the swing overlooking the lake. Eliot will look through the papers and poke fun at the name they’ve chosen for his new life —

(  _ “Elliott Spencer. Really.”  _

_ “You think you’re the only Eliot and Spencer out here, pal? Just throw in a little variation into the name and no one will suspect a thing. They wouldn’t think the great Eliot Spencer would live under an identity with almost the exact same name.”  _

_ “So what you’re saying is, it’s just dumb enough to work.”  _

_ “If it’s dumb but it works, then it’s not dumb, is it?”  _ )

— and Quinn will talk at length about what he’s been discussing with Parker and Hardison regarding it all. They’ll discuss the practical; where to put the money and the documents, whether citizenship should be kept or if a different country would be better, whether the team will be training anyone to take the reigns of Leverage if and when retirement does come. They’ll discuss the little less practical; the merits of living in the city versus the countryside, whether Eliot should cut his hair or grow it out, the best kind of dog breed to get,  _ Quinn for the last time we ain’t keeping a chihuahua, they freak me out! _ (They will though, and Eliot will love her, and feed her scraps of roast chicken she’s not supposed to have, and Quinn will watch on with enough love in his heart to potentially give him cardiac arrest.)

But that’s later. All of it — the retirement and discussions thereof — is for later. If there is a later, anyway. They’re not stupid. They know that a  _ later _ may never come in their line of business, that even with the options on the table it’s still no guarantee they’ll live to see it come to fruition anyway.

The fact is, though, the option is there at all. The  _ chance _ to grow old. A chance to take when they’re ready, and alive to do so. And that’s more than they could even dream of.

It’s not the ending he imagined for himself in the beginning, but it's a better ending than he could have ever hoped for. It’s not a house with a big backyard, but it’s a cabin in the middle of the woods like a pocket of paradise all for themselves. It’s not his blood family he’s surrounded by, but it’s people he’d consider even closer than, people he loves more than he ever knew one could love a once-stranger.

And Quinn’s certainly no pretty girl — a thought that makes Eliot want to laugh — but he’s Eliot’s partner, in crime and in life and everything in between. He’s the blood on Eliot’s knuckles after a fight and the blood on his lips that gets kissed away when Eliot’s getting bandaged up at home and he’s the blood in Eliot’s veins that pump, that thrum, that keep him going even when he doesn’t want to. He’s a smartass, and an idiot, and he’s the love of Eliot’s life.

(... And maybe he’s a little pretty too, Eliot admits, in the way Quinn smiles and laughs and winks those brown eyes, in the curl of his hair and the line of his shoulders, in the scars on his torso and the callouses on his hands and the way he says  _ Eliot _ like it means  _ love _ —)

Them, all of them, they’re the best gifts Eliot’s ever gotten, and he knows it. The best he’ll ever get. He’d kill for them, he’d die for them, he’d  _ live _ for them, because they’ve accepted him for all he is and knew all he was and accepted that, too. They never tried to fix Eliot, never tried to offer him absolution — only understanding, and honesty, and respite, and Eliot’s come to realize that that, too, is it’s own form of salvation.

They’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and the idea of a future with them — all of them, the team that’s become his family and the man who’s become his soulmate — at his side, in peace and alive; it’s more than he deserves, and all he hopes for.

For right now, though? Right now, he’s happy just to be alive. Happy to just be here, Quinn under his hands and foreheads together and laughing like they’re just two boys in love (they are.) Happy, and content, and stupidly grateful; for the second chance he’s been given, for another year to still be here with everyone he’s come to love, for the coffee still steaming on the table and the pale peaches of morning sky tiptoeing in through the windows and the future laid out before them, in sheets of paper and every laugh shared.

**Author's Note:**

> happy belated birthday to [the eliot to my quinn,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/pseuds/DivineProjectZero) looking forward to the day we can platonically break each other's ribs and eat cheesecake!
> 
> title is from both [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PqZo6zjBZkk) and a little inside quote between us, oho
> 
> no beta and proofread only once jsbdfkjsdbfjksdhfs i'm also [here](https://keycchan.tumblr.com/)


End file.
